


tick tock

by thinkatory



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Sacrifice, Shower Sex, brief orgasm denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: The Master wants what he wants and takes what he gets."Two hours," the Doctor repeats. "For a relative year of peace.""Two hours," he says, soft, satisfied, and extends his hand. "Oh, we're going to have alovelytime."
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	tick tock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheseusInTheMaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/gifts).



> Set mid-S12.
> 
> I tried to work in as many prompts as I could! I hope you enjoy this.

The Master stands only a few feet from her, his gaze tight on her face and arms crossed over his chest. "So," he says, with a mock-casual smile, "you won't surrender your precious pet to me? She's a fighter, I do like that in a girl."

"Yaz is safe," the Doctor says, firm. "You don't need her."

"It's not a matter of need." He gestures idly. "It's a matter of want."

"Well, I'm limiting your options." She watches him. "What do you want?"

"What do I _ever_ want?"

She hasn't felt this energy off of him in at least a few regenerations, this intense fascination; it was unnerving at first, but now it brings her pangs of nostalgia and memories of easier, on-and-off times of being his and being his enemy. She tilts her chin up. "I'll give you two hours," she says.

His smile widens, just enough. "Two hours of what?"

"Oh, come on," she says, with a sigh. "You know what."

He shifts to a more casual stance, contemplating his trim fingernails before looking up at her with mild fondness. "I want to hear you say it, Doctor."

"Two hours with me." She keeps her expression level. "Then you leave us be."

"Oh, I can't promise that," the Master says, cheerfully bland, "but I could give you some space. Just a little. A moment of peace or two without having to worry that I'm on my way."

She glances away, casually disconcerted. "That may not be enough."

"Don't pretend you don't want to," he says, and gestures sharply to catch her attention. His gaze is penetrating, questioning. "Come along, Doctor."

"Two hours," the Doctor repeats. "For a relative year of peace."

"Two hours," he says, soft, satisfied, and extends his hand. "Oh, we're going to have a _lovely_ time."

"'Course," she answers instinctively, a bit dry, and moves to take his hand. His hands are calloused, strong, and she releases a slow breath as with that grip he leads her into his TARDIS.

* * *

The inside of his TARDIS is no longer the mask of the interior of a house, but a console room with dark grey pylons and soft, white-purple light from above. He doesn't give her much of a chance to look around beyond that, as he pushes her back into a chair bolted to the console floor and presses close, his face terribly near hers. "Clock's ticking," he says, light. "What shall I do?"

She's going to regret this. "Use your imagination."

A smile bursts across his face, and one of his hands moves around to the small of her back while the fingers of the other seek into her hair and seize her by the back of the head, not too harshly. She looks up at him, level, keeping her heartbeats at a normal pace; he leans in, she closes her eyes, and he kisses her, again and again, until she presses a hand into his chest to push him back. He resists, then breaks from her by less than an inch, expression cool. "I thought we had an agreement."

"Master," the Doctor says softly, but can't find the words for the feeling in her chest she's struggling to comprehend. "Please."

"Please _what_?" He presses against her as tightly as he can, his knee between her thighs, and his fingers tight on her hip. "Pretend you don't want this all you want. I know the truth."

Fine. Fine, she can handle this. She knows he won't kill her, that's the biggest problem, but that would be the least interesting end to the game for him. "Do it." She keeps her expression resolved. "I know you've thought about it."

"Oh, I have." His mouth brushes from her cheek down her neck, and she can't restrain the flutter of her hearts at the soft contact. His teeth nip into her skin and she flinches. "Doctor, I have so missed you."

"Tick tock," she answers, and his soft laugh is the last thing she hears before his hands move and he's undoing her trousers. _You can do this._ Maybe she can even enjoy this. She moves to allow him to strip them down to her ankles; the chair is cool against her arse until he pulls her up and turns her around, pushing her firmly into the chair facefirst.

"What," she starts, but he yanks her back against his hips with one hand and covers her mouth firmly with the other, as she grips the chair to stay up. She can just barely breathe through the contact, but supposes they've had worse encounters in the past.

He seems content to play at some sort of gentleness now, blending intimate touches with sharp, possessive movements; his fingertips push firmly inside of her from behind, and she releases a sharp breath as he presses them all the way into her. It's been a long time, not just with the Master, and she has to get used to this.

"Do you remember?" he says, barely audible. "The last time we did this?"

"Yes," the Doctor says, her throat aching for reasons she couldn't name.

"Of course you do." He's shoved her shirt up over her breasts now, feeling her as best he can, trying to stimulate her. "You pretended not to be keen, but I knew."

"You always want everything from me." Her breaths are coming just a shade faster now. "You're never satisfied with anything less than total submission. Total consumption of everything someone is."

"That's the name of the game, isn't it," he whispers, and she feels his cock brushing up against her arse now, vividly hard. She knows what's coming, and she can almost welcome this, maybe, sort of, because she has that complicated mess of feelings around him and this could be considered part and parcel of the whole thing. 

Physical intimacy, right? Right.

"Everything used to be so simple," he snipes softly. "Then I realized what you were."

"Are you going to talk this whole time, or what?" the Doctor asks, and immediately regrets it.

Thankfully, he doesn't react to that, at least not the way she expects. He leans over her, and speaks even more softly. "You're too powerful," he pronounces. "I want to give you an education in surrender."

He's got his fingers inside of her, unmoving, and she wishes, just for a moment, that he'd keep on. Apparently banter is more important right now. "I don't do surrender."

"You will," the Master says, a faint laugh in his voice, and then he's pulling his fingers out of her, and she flinches as he starts to press his cock inside of her arse.

"Master," she forces out, but he runs an apparently soothing hand down her back as he moves, terribly slow, deeper into her until she's bit into her lip and cheek out of discomfort and pain. Her fingers grip white against the chair as he starts to move, a soft sound or two escaping his mouth as he goes.

Something about this feels wrong. Everything about this feels wrong. She goes rigid even as he makes soothing, pleasant sounds amidst the brief grunts of pleasure, a hand toying with her hair as he starts to fuck her harder. She closes her eyes tightly and tries to remind herself of what she's agreed to, but the ticking of the clock seems to be going a lot slower than she'd anticipated, as the pain starts to build.

"Master," she repeats, resisting, pressing up, but he makes another soothing sound and shoves her more firmly against the chair. Now with each thrust she's got to avoid hitting her head against the back of the chair by twisting her head away, and the discomfort is almost too much.

 _One year._ She has to remember that. Two hours for one year of safety.

"You are," he says, soft, clearly overwhelmed with pleasure, "so _lovely._ "

She restrains a shudder, tries to slow her heartbeats, but she can't focus. He's thick and hard inside her, and this body does _not_ enjoy this, and if she's to be honest the more he goes the more she wants it _but not this way_.

That's why he's doing this. It's not about satisfying her, or the terribly vacillating thing that's always existed between them. It's about making her want him and denying her that while making her hurt. It's so _him_. She tries to breathe as he goes and hums in satisfaction, his fingers tight in her hip and his others still stroking her hair, down her back, down her sides.

She bites hard into her lip as he pushes as deep inside her arse as he can, again and again, and the words burst out of her mouth. "You've made your point." Her voice is far more strained than she'd like. Whatever.

"It's my two hours," the Master says, casual as anything, and toys with her hair some more as he stops for a moment. "And you're going to hurt my feelings, haven't you missed me?"

The terrible thing is: yes, she has.

Will this change anything?

"Do what you're going to do," the Doctor says tightly.

"I plan on it," he whispers, intent, and pulls out of her; she hears him make a desperate sound behind her, then his come is pooling on her back. She hopes beyond hope, inanely, that it doesn't get on her clothes.

"I think you need a shower," the Master says, cheery but mild. "Clothes off, Doctor."

There's something horrible about the idea of being paraded through the Master's TARDIS absolutely starkers. "Really," she says, daring to shift up from the uncomfortable position on the chair.

"Really." His voice goes flat. "Up. Clothes off. Now."

The Doctor turns to face him, and he's fully clothed again, only inches away, that look of absolute fascination still glittering in his eyes. She holds his gaze as she kicks off her shoes, strips off her clothes, and stands, bare feet cooled by the metal beneath.

"Come along." He firmly but gently takes her hand, and leads her into the depths of his TARDIS. Eventually they happen upon his elaborate loo, and he releases her hand to go start the shower. She stands, watching him, as he tests the water as though everything is completely normal, then gestures for her to move inside.

The water is perfect, hot but not scalding, and she shifts to let it pour over her body, a tremor going through her at the relief of something pleasant after something so dreadful. Then he's moving inside of the shower, and the relief vanishes like flash steam as he begins to touch her, everywhere he can.

"You're worth every minute," he murmurs against her ear, and pins her against the wall, steam rising around them as he slips open her thighs to begin to pleasure her. She knows she can't react, she knows this is all part of some twisted mindgame of his, but her body doesn't seem to understand. It was aching for this during what just happened in the console room, the thing she doesn't want to name. It rolls brief pleasure through her whether she likes it or not.

"Good." The Master's voice is so soft it's barely audible over the water. She's resisting the tide of arousal and he kisses her on the neck, fingers gripping her arse to pull her tight against him.

She doesn't want to. She can't. He wants to piece all different types of surrender from her to prove every bit of his point, that he can both control her and make her want him. She can't – 

"Ugh," she breathes out, shaking as the water spray just barely reaches her skin.

"Close, aren't you." His voice is thick with wanting, and he speeds up his fingers, nipping his teeth into her neck, and she thinks, maybe he's right, maybe her body's going to surrender for her, but then he pulls his fingers out of her and pushes them without hesitation into her mouth. Her breath comes out harshly as he does, her anger flaring, a bit of self-loathing rising as she tastes her own arousal on his fingers.

"I wouldn't want you to give in," the Master says, and moves his hands to cup her face, holding her gaze. "That wouldn't be my Doctor." He rests his forehead to hers, eyes closing. "I want you to fight."

"Doesn't seem like you do," the Doctor says, stock-still against him.

"Oh, I'll win," he says, "but you'll forever have that little spark of resistance in you." He kisses her, hard and lingering. "Fight back," he murmurs, and presses her further up the shower wall to push his cock inside of her, where her body was aching to have it, but everything within her strains to fight him back. One of her hands has to hold her up but she claws at him with the fingernails of her other hand, his cheek down to his neck, his shoulder and back; he uses his other hand to pin her down and press his body hard against hers to keep her from rolling hers against him in the best defiance she can muster, kissing her again and again in brief, brief ownership.

He has his way. For now.

It's worth it. It has to be.

She thinks of Yaz as he fucks her so hard every part of her aches, and she strains to think of peace and quiet as he comes inside of her.

"There we go," he breathes out, shaky, and kisses her hard, near-lovingly. She hates the part of her who falls, just for an instant, and looks him in the face after the kiss.

"Take a moment," the Master says, and seizes an elaborate-looking bottle. He doesn't ask for her permission as he begins to work the shampoo through her hair. It smells of kaava berries from Karn, a common import to Gallifrey, and she aches for home in the midst of his gentle touch. He then works it over as soap over her body, and she presses her eyes closed tightly, just for a moment, torn between letting him see that she's not enjoying this and not wanting him to see the weakness.

That's likely the game. That, and he does love her, in some twisted way, doesn't he?

He takes her hand and moves her out of the shower, toweling her down and then himself in deliberate motion. "Let's chat," he says, conversational, in answer to that steady look on her face, and moves away just enough to release her. "Have a rest. This way."

She doesn't speak. She wouldn't know what to say. She follows.

* * *

As they recline in his bed before their next go, he reminisces aloud about Gallifrey, though his voice tilts bitter. Most of the memories he shares are about them, about the times before the falling-out. He doesn't seem sad, she thinks; he just misses the times when the Doctor loved him beyond anything else.

She had.

She never will again.


End file.
